


Warmth

by kipli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cold Weather, Couch Cuddles, Cute, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Sherlock's Feet, Teasing, and the holidays got the best of me, because i'm a tease, footjob tease, justjohnlockstuff, no actual smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kipli/pseuds/kipli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do I look like a portable heater to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katzedecimal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/gifts).



> This is just a little silly bit of fluffy and teasing set during the Christmas season. This is for justjohnlockstuff's gift exchange for katzedecimal. :3

“Do I look like a portable heater to you?”

The only reply to John's grumble was a distracted _yes yes_ as Sherlock sunk further on to his side, eyes fixed on the telly. He sprawled over the majority of the sofa and tucked his bare feet completely underneath John's thigh. Anyone else might think Sherlock was attempting to shove him off the sofa entirely.

“It's bloody snowing, Sherlock. Put some damned socks on!”

Even as he said it, John reached for a blanket instead, knowing full well Sherlock would ignore the complaint. He shifted Sherlock's feet up from underneath to on top of his thigh, then covered his lap and Sherlock's lower half, resting warm hands over the blanket around cold toes buried beneath.

The flat was warmly lit by only the glow from the fireplace and the telly. Outside snow reflected moonlight and street lamps. The flat was smartly decorated – without Sherlock's help – with little touches here and there of the season. The smell of Mrs. Hudson's sugar cookies still hung in the air. It was as picturesque a December as one could manage in London.

“The plot is ridiculously trite.”

John focused back on the telly at Sherlock's commentary. “It's _A Christmas Carol_. Of course it's trite. It's a classic.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Liar.”

John squeezed the feet on his lap and Sherlock hummed in supposed indifference but John could hear the happy little tenor laced throughout. Sherlock was content. He'd not be here, relaxed on the sofa, watching bloody Christmas telly, if he wasn't content. John hadn't even been the one to turn on the telly. Whether Sherlock was truly feeling festive or felt the programme was the most appropriate for John's mood, it was hard to say, but he had a silly little feeling that Sherlock was pleased with the quiet festivities of the evening.

Perhaps Sherlock truly hadn't seen (or had deleted) _A Christmas Carol_ as the man watched the rest of the film with rapt attention. His commentary was limited to small jabs here and there but otherwise he watched without complaint, which for Sherlock spoke volumes on his enjoyment. It was a smaller production, something from the archives that was cheap to air, but it had its charm.

John enjoyed watching Sherlock more than the film but it was just as lovely a sight. The whole scene was beyond the realm of possibilities only a year earlier and to be here, like this, with Sherlock... His heart overflowed with emotions and John tucked his head down, turning away to the window and the snowfall, in an attempt to hide the bubbling emotions. Still, he rubbed gently at Sherlock's feet through the blanket, just to reassure himself that the man was right here, with him. So much had happened over the last year but never in all his wildest dreams did he imagine something so simple yet so... happy. He was happy. They were happy. Somehow, they were happy. He'd never dared hoped for happy.

Sherlock gently nudged his foot against John's thigh. The film had finished and John hadn't noticed. “You rub at my feet any longer, John Hamish Watson, and I'll think you've developed a new kink.”

John laughed even as his cheeks coloured. “Well, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, there isn't a part of you I'm _not_ happy to rub.” He winked and slid his hands beneath the blankets to properly rub those now warmed feet.

The pleased hum from Sherlock went right through John to his core. He'd never get enough of hearing Sherlock _happy_ with his touches.

“Can you classify a whole person as a kink?” Sherlock wondered with a teasing grin, sliding one foot forward enough to rub over the front of John's trousers. “Isn't that defeating the purpose of a kink?”

He grunted low at the tease, struggling not to rock forward, but managed to keep his composure to tease back, “I don't care. You're enough trouble to fulfil twenty kinks.”

Sherlock gave an indignant huff and curled his foot around the tent forming in John's trousers. “Says the bloke getting off on a footjob.”

John half groaned and half laughed, the two tangling up together in his throat. He covered his eyes with a hand and sighed in exasperation, “How is it you know what a footjob is but not _A Christmas Carol_?”

“Which was I more likely to encounter with a significant other who's always stared at my feet?”

“I stare at all of you.”

“Nevertheless.”

Sherlock pressed his point by firmly rocking his foot. Fuck the little brilliant bastard. He gripped Sherlock's feet and held them in place. He pointedly accused, “You're only attempting to distract me from the fact you still haven't got socks on.”

Sherlock laughed. It's always a lovely, rumbling, wonderful thing to hear. “Oh for goodness sake, forget the bloody socks,” he chuckled and wiggled his feet in John's firm hold. “I'm attempting to seduce my overly festive other half.” He raised a teasing eyebrow. “And if we're off to bed, well then, I won't need _socks_.”

John huffed as he slid Sherlock's feet off his lap. He leaned down to steal one teasing kiss, then shift up off the sofa onto his feet. “Oh you're not getting off that easy.” He stepped over to the few small wrapped gifts sitting on the mantle and picked up one of Sherlock's. He waved it at the other man as he made for the bedroom. “Wait until you see your gift.”

Sherlock blinked from the sofa, his mind quickly deducing where John was going with this, and he called out in an undignified shout, “You did _not_ get me bloody Christmas socks?!”

“And they light up.”

John stifled a laugh at the sound of Sherlock's upset huff.

“I should have guessed this kink after the ugly Christmas jumpers...”

 

END


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